Last night under the cloak of my Medecine du Monde contingent I visited the Idomeni camp on the Greek-FYROM border. It’s purely a transit camp, and on any given day 10 000 people pass through. The camp is confronting in its sadness and its normalcy. The doctors tent has a waiting room that short of a few copies of Women’s Weekly could be the same as any other medical centre. People sit in line to see the medic, parents try to calm their crying kids and control the naughty ones, and everyone looks bored and restless. Outside there is a group of teenage boys seeing who can clear a railing the most easily by leap frogging. One doesn’t make it and is teased mercilessly. People are trying to connect to the wifi and find somewhere to charge their phones. Other than the overarching sense of waiting and expectation, other than the dirt and the tents and the smell, this could be anywhere. Every now and then a volunteer yells out ‘Farsi and English!’ or ‘Urdu!’ and without fail someone puts up their hand and comes forward to translate.

The only thing that really makes this scene different is the sense of anxiety and nervousness about when it will be their turn to cross. Groups arrive in large buses and are given a ticket, and when their number is called they are allowed to walk into FYROM. The timing depends on the authorities at the other side letting them through. Every 5 mins someone asks me what number they are up to, people are frantic they will miss their turn and be stuck. The really bizarre thing is that there’s no check or control on the numbers, and yet nobody pushes in. Everyone is waiting their turn. The refugees are anxious and frustrated, but incredibly polite; every time I tell them that I don’t know and they just have to wait they thank me profusely.

UNHCR is trying desperately to make sure groups stick together. A problem has been families becoming separated and it is easy to see why. The camp is dark and there are hundreds of people everywhere. People are curled up in corners and fall asleep in the dirt. I chat to a logistics officer from MSF, Antonis, who is very proud with how much his English has improved in the past month since he started working at the camp. Like all of Greece he has family in Melbourne and is excited that I’m Australian. He tells me how his grandparents were refugees and we have to help these people. The kindness in his voice when he responds to the same questions over and over again shows much more patience then I could muster. I think of the video footage of Australian staff at detention centres that was leaked and I cringe. Maybe part of our problem is that we’ve always just had it so good people really believe hardship is not being able to afford a second car. Australians can say things like send them back and ‘stop the boats’ while Antonis can say ‘we know what they have seen’.

Fatima and Ahmoud are a young Kurdish couple who left Syria a month ago. When I ask if they were afraid of the government or ISIS or the rebels Ahmoud waves his hand dismissively and says ‘that kill that and that kill that and they kill me’. So many threats exist that discussing who is responsible has become irrelevant. They have a two month old baby, and for this reason Ahmoud paid 2300 pp to travel to Greece in a new boat. He responds to many of my questions with ‘because I have a baby’, and tells me he saved money for two years and sold his house and all their jewellery to afford the ticket. They spent 20 days in Turkey where they were harassed by the police and the army. Ahmoud tells me that he didn’t sleep for almost three weeks because he had to stay awake and guard their family to make sure his wife and daughter were safe. Eventually a smuggler picked them up from Istanbul and they drove for 9 hours in the dark to Izmir. Crying, terrified, they were put on the boat for Greece. They are heading to Sweden where Ahmoud’s older brother is. His hopes for the future are simple, he wants his daughter to be able to go to school, and he wants to have a life.

I ask them about their wedding and Ahmoud tells me that they couldn’t have a real party because of the war. He seems incredibly protective of Fatima and doesn’t let go of her the whole time we talk. He grows bashful as he explains he wanted to marry her when they first met, but it took him two years to work up the courage. Fatima doesn’t speak any English, but seems to understand this as she looks at me and rolls her eyes. Ahmoud was a chef in a French restaurant in Syria, but he is nervous about finding a job in Europe because he cannot work with pork and is worried this will stop someone from hiring him. I ask if they want to have more kids and he says yes, but only one, he is firm that two is enough. I ask if they would ever go back to Syria and his face contorts into a pained expression. He says that he wants his daughter to see his home, ‘but right now it is too empty’.

Being white the refugees think I am working there and assume that I know what is going on. One man comes up and asks for my help connecting to the wifi. He is trying to reach his family in Afghanistan to tell them that he has arrived safely with his son. This is like the blind leading the blind and all I manage to do is run his battery down while trying to find the setting on his phone. A little girl has no socks or shoes and here I am slightly more helpful in finding something for her feet. People are consistently asking for blankets and tonight for some reason there aren’t any, but they are offered extra warm clothing before they cross over. One woman from Nigeria asks me for a carton, she has three babies with her and doesn’t want to put them on the cold floor.

The scene is incredibly multicultural. I meet people from Pakistan, Bangladesh, Eritrea. My new friend Antonis tells me that yesterday they had a group from the Dominican Republic pass through. I walk with one group to the border and it is the strangest feeling. I’ve crossed many borders on foot, but this crossing, in the dark and with authorities herding everyone through like cattle, feels like something out of an apocalypse film.

Crossing on the FYROM side of the border

Despite suggestions that I disguise myself as a refugee and sneak across the border illegally I choose not to do that, although an interesting idea I’m not quite keen on spending a night in a Macedonian jail. So this morning I went to the official crossing and then travelled back to the unofficial one on the FYROM side. My Greek taxi driver and the hotel owner were quite concerned that I did not have a visa. I assured them that I am Australian and this is no problem. They asked me if I checked and I lie and tell them of course I have, only a stupid idiot who has never travelled before wouldn’t check if they needed a visa to go into a new country. Luckily I turned out to be right, but for a few seconds I had a slight fear of being turned back to where I came from. It’s not a nice feeling even if in my situation it only would have been a minor inconvenience.

The border between Greece and the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia

At the train station in Gevgelja there are buses and taxis everywhere. The refugees cross and those without lots of children take a taxi while large families wait for a train. Drivers don’t charge for young children, but this means they are reluctant to take more than one in a car load. And the police will fine them if they are caught with too many people. I manage to walk past the first line of security without being noticed and cross the tracks trying to look as not-blonde and fair as possible, but have to turn around. My choice to do things officially turned out to be a wise one because almost immediately I was racially profiled by the police and had my passport checked. Macedonia has been doing everything to stop people accessing the camps and they are not impressed with my presence. Without official accreditation, which I don’t have, or official permission from the police, which I couldn’t get, you are not supposed to be there. I explain that I am just trying to get a taxi and want to go to Serbia and they calm down once they see my passport is stamped. But my place is clear, ‘these buses are not for you, here is Syrian people, normal peoples bus is over there’.

Nationality is not something you think about that much when you have a ‘good one’. The whole concept of being a refugee revolves around a lack of protection from the state, something that people in the west generally don’t have to worry about. Nationality can be a source of pride and a source of shame, for me it has definitely been both. The only other Australian I met on Lesbos was a woman who emigrated there twenty years ago. And volunteers and aid workers alike were all very surprised to learn where I was from. We really do have the most atrocious international reputation concerning this issue, and I would like to see Dutton or Turnbull try and justify it to the mayor of Sykemia or Molyvos, or the mayor of Lesbos who has consistently reiterated that it makes no difference where these people come from, we are all human. These people haven’t done anything wrong, and one day, that could be us.

Nationality also plays a role amongst the refugees. I was ignorant of the tension between Syrians and those who come from further east. Because they are more likely to be wealthy, the Syrians can pay for private taxis and buses rather than wait for the state supplied transport, thus they reach the processing centres and eventually their final destination more quickly. The Afghans have capitalised on this and sell Syrians who arrive after them their fingerprint documentation. I was surprised to learn of such entrepreneurship. Being in less of a rush allows people from Afghanistan the time to go through the processing, and after they no longer need the paper work (to board ferries), they sell it to Syrians who want to speed up crossing the orders. This gives the Afghans money and buys the Syrians time. The Afghans then have to line up at the next border while the Syrians pass through. Every time the authorities think they have come up with a full proof way to control the situation, within days the refugees have outsmarted them and found a way around it. You just can’t control population movements on this scale.

I speak to an aid worker from Swiss organisation Medecine du Monde who tells me about his PHD in post-2011 migration from Libya. When the conflict began tens of thousands of Bangladeshi, Sri Lankan and Pakistani workers, mostly domestic and labour, were left stranded with no help from their governments. On the contrary, China hired a Greek ferry, a Malta airport and evacuated 32 000 of its citizens within a week. The difference between a government that cares and a government that doesn’t is a matter of life and death.

From the Greek Islands and Athens the refugees head north by bus to the border with the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (FYROM). The camp on the Greek side where I am now is north of Thessaloniki and called Idomeni. Depending on numbers refugees can spend anywhere from 20 minutes to 6 hours waiting to cross. It is a separate border to the official crossing, and I have been told I won’t be allowed to cross over with them tomorrow but will have to travel further along to the regulated border. So determined are the authorities to distinguish between ‘us’ and ‘them’ that we can’t even cross the same frontier in the same place. Police ensure that people cross in groups of 50, and the refugees walk along the rail line into FYROM. Here the authorities are pragmatic and everything is very regulated. As far as FYROM is concerned, these people do not really exist and it is just about creating a corridor to get them out as quickly as possible. After crossing they are charged 25 EU for a train to the Serbian border. There is one train every 3 hours and the largest holds 1500 people. As long as the borders further north stay open everything is calm. But aid workers fear what will happen if Austria, Slovenia, Croatia or Serbia decide to close their borders. Earlier this year Hungary made just that decision and panic made the system unmanageable. Another factor out of everyone’s control is the weather. The last week has seen temperatures above 20C and sunny days, but when it rains and the temperature drops people get sick. They may have to walk in the cold for hours and will often present with hypothermia and other health problems that make an otherwise composed situation tense.

The overall atmosphere is always one of onward movement. Stopping is not an option- these people do not want to stop, and nobody wants them to stop ‘here’. Its fine if they decide to stop in Serbia or Germany or Sweden, or if they had stopped in Turkey. But no one wants them to be their problem. My Medecine du Monde guide is another open border advocate; I’ve been surprised by how many I’ve met. He makes a lot of sense. Whenever there is an announcement about one of the countries along the route closing the borders, panic is rampant and there is a spike in numbers. It is this sense of urgency induced by governments flexing their muscles that potentially renders the situation out of control. He maintains that this is not a humanitarian crisis, it’s a political crisis. A statement validated by EU paralysis in coming to an agreement on how to deal with the situation. The humanitarian disaster could be solved by very quick decisions; more permanent infrastructure, better facilities, correct information on processing and procedures. But governments don’t want that. Governments want to maintain the allure and facade of border protection and a temporary problem, which is rubbish given the fact that many of these people are running from protracted situations. Above all people here advocate for a ‘ferry first’ approach. A large boat crosses from Turkey to Lesbos every day, but the refugees cannot get on it despite the fact that it is almost empty. There is no understanding such a prohibition when people then chose to get on rickety boats and risk their lives anyway. Until the government and the EU do something about that it is hard to imagine anyone taking their attempts at compassionate rhetoric seriously.

This idea of thinking beyond the nation state challenges usual perceptions of refugees vs economic migrants, though the line between these two is often so blurred it is hard to make judgments that one is more deserving than the other. Economic migrants by definition have something to offer our societies. Although they may be seen as less worthy, in practice they are less of a drain on countries’ economies, particularly countries within the EU, Australia, Japan, Korea, which all have aging populations and will depend upon migration for their future survival. The 1951 Convention that determines status and who is entitled to refugee protection was drafted in response to a very particular context after WW2, that resembles nothing like the current global situation. The drafters had in mind Jewish elite academics forced to flee the holocaust, not Syrian families running from war. But valid fears exist that any attempts at redrafting the Convention will result in more rather than less restrictions on who is offered protection. Categorising people who need to flee just seems so pointless. The world is shaking just as much as it was in 1945, it’s just that it’s not shaking in our backyard anymore.

While nationality may divide us still, it is heart-warming to see the number of refugees who have formed groups in their travels, showing the natural human desire to always be part of a collective. No man is an island, and none of us want to journey alone. And the biggest collective of all is humanity. Jamal, the man who quit his job to live a life of volunteering told me how he was walking up to a camp one day when he was called into the bushes by three cheeky young unaccompanied Afghan boys who were eating food distributed by emergency staff around a fire they had lit to keep warm. They motioned for him to join them and shared their sandwiches, without knowing when their next meal would be. They also then tried to give him their lighter as a present. The gift of food and the gift of warmth, from three boys who had consistently not had access to either. I’m going to use Jamal’s words because I can’t put it any better. “This is why we survive; this is why humanity will endure whatever evil has to throw at it. It’s because of our capacity to share in the most extreme of circumstances.” Regardless of what symbol we have on the front of our passports.

I meet 16 year old Akilah in one of the transit camps with her friend and three siblings. They arrived this morning from Syria and are waiting for the bus to the processing centre. Three years ago a bomb was dropped on their family home in Damascus and the house burnt to the ground. None of the children were inside, but Akilah tells me, ‘my father and my mother, they are dead’. She says this so casually that for an instant I think I must have misheard her. But she goes on to explain that the fire truck showed up too late and she came home to find both her parents had been burned alive. The shock on my face is clearly visible and she elaborates for my benefit, ‘plane war- you understand, the government drops bombs and now all the houses are in the ground’. I dumbly nod that of course I understand, because my early teenage years were obviously characterised by having a bomb dropped on my house and losing my parents rather than thinking about who would drive me to netball training.

Following her parents’ death the family moved to Douma, a town outside of Damascus which fell to rebels, lost all government protection and is basically a never ending battleground. She describes the daily bombings and explosions, the curfews and barricading of neighborhoods, and the men with guns. But the less violent details are just as shocking. A government blockade on supplies meant almost no fresh food got through, so for weeks her family ate only pet food. When food did get through it was so expensive that they couldn’t afford vegetables, rice or bread. They could not attend school or leave the house, and when they heard the planes they had to run down to the building’s basement. She acts out how her younger sister would cover her ears and rock back and forth crying as the bombs were dropped. She looks too small for an 11 year old, possibly because she hasn’t had a proper meal in 3 years.

They left Syria 5 days ago and paid a smuggler 800 Euro per person. They have an aunt in Sweden who is waiting for them, but Akilah tells me she would prefer Germany because the weather is better. It’s all relative I suppose. It was fear of conscription that finally forced them to flee Syria. The government ‘maybe take my brother to fight’ she says. Her brother is five years older than her, but seems withdrawn and lacking in the confidence of his younger sister. He smiles hello, but Akilah does all the talking. I ask her who they were afraid of, she tells me Assad, Daesh, the rebels, everyone. This is a common thing I’m hearing from Syrians, they almost can’t identify what was the final threat that made them run, so many forces they’ve been targeted by. One refugee told me that he had been detained by everyone except the Kurds.

I ask her why they didn’t stay in Turkey where they were no longer being bombed; she says they were afraid of the Turkish government ‘catching them’. They do not speak Turkish and have heard that they could have no life in Turkey without the language. She acts out the rocking in the boat and says they all had to be very still because the water came up to their waist. When I ask Akilah about her friends she is again oblivious to the power of her words. ‘Some are in Europe, some are in Turkey, some are still in Syria, and some are dead’ she says. She is hoping to get wifi so they can call the 94 year old grandma they left behind. ‘When we said goodbye, it was so sad, we cry, because she will die and we will never see her again’. I think of the scenes on the beach. When a boat lands and people get out, the first thing you see them do is grab the people they know in a giant bear hug, the kind you get from whoever’s picked you up from the airport after a long trip. The second thing they do is pull out their phones and call whoever they’ve left behind. I don’t know the words they use, but it’s easy to understand what they’re saying from the emotion on their faces.

Akilah breaks into a huge smile and tells me she wants to go back to school. Her English is remarkable for someone who hasn’t been in a classroom for years and she often corrects herself. ‘I like study so much’ she says, ‘I want to be a doctor’. Her 24 year old sister is shyer but tells me she was in the middle of studying surgical dentistry when they lost their parents. She too wants to pick up her studies. ‘I just want to be happy she says, I want to go back to life’. They are all grinning from ear to ear because they believe they will get an education and food and work in Sweden or Germany, but also because they are outside. For three years they have been under a blockade and afraid to leave their home. She tells me how amazing it was to come from the boat to the camp because they could walk without worrying about bombs.

Like any 16 year old, Akilah is obsessed with her mobile. She takes a selfie of the two of us and then proceeds to show me the other photos in her phone. The content is a bit different from the average 16 year old Australians. First I see a short clip of their house after the fire. It is charred, but you can make out a kitchen that looks like any other, a washing machine that looks like mine at home, blackened picture frames, a melted clothes rack. Her sister shows me photos of their mum and dad, they are eager to tell me what wonderful parents they were and how beautiful their mum was. And then they show me photos of Damascus. Both of them are bragging the way I do about Sydney, almost conceitedly about its beauty; at night the light is amazing they tell me, and the mosque is magic. ‘I wish the war is finished so we could go back to our country’. While they are ecstatic to be in a place where they can walk on the street without fear, there is still no place like home. ‘We liked it because we have always lived there’

This evening several boats arrived in the space of an hour. On the walk back from a fishing village I see a group of teenage boys dripping wet stop to help a Greek local and his son carry their boat into their garage. These young men stopped, possibly losing a spot on an earlier bus out, put down their sad-looking belongings and picked up the other end of the raft as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. As if they hadn’t just got off a rubber dingy and didn’t have weeks of arduous travel ahead of them. As if they had all the time in the world to help a stranger.

Before I head back to town another boat comes in. It is very dark now, I am on the side of the road doing what has become my usual contribution, taking off life jackets and trying to get people to remember to breath. A woman who must be younger than me is shaking in a very strange way, but physically seems to be alright. After I get her out of the vest a medic appears by her side holding what looks like a bundle and turns out to be a screaming 10 month old baby. It is so, so small, and if this is what a ten month old baby looks like I can’t image how tiny the several day old ones were that have arrived. The baby’s clothes are wet and we can’t find any dry ones so it is wrapped in someone’s jacket while the medic tries to calm it. The woman is still shaking and a camera man who I could throttle actually sticks a microphone in her face until the doctor tells him to piss off. Eventually the baby stops screaming and they get them into a car and drive them to the camp. The medic then gives an interview where she does her best not to break down and slams governments for allowing this to happen and tries to appeal to a common humanity. ‘People don’t risk their children unless they have to’ she says. She is crying, I am crying, the arsehole camera man is crying. Everyone here is crying but it seems that no one who can stop it is listening.

Tonight I met with representatives from UNHCR who told me that 93% of people who have passed through Greece come from the top ten refugee-producing countries. Yet some people will still label them economic migrants. UNHCR has begun a brilliant initiative where children are put through a simulated asylum journey. From playing with their friends on the beach, to having to flee, crossing a border and being separated from their buddy. Although Greece is not a paradise for asylum seekers, genuine effort is being made to improve the situation and increase peoples understanding, starting with children. So that when kids see and meet refugees, they have an idea of what they’ve been through. So that when kids grow up they become more compassionate individuals than the governments running the show today. I can think of several adults I’d like to put through the same passages program.

Being on Lesbos without a car makes life interesting, but with so many volunteers running all over the place hitch hiking has been pretty easy. This morning though I was picked up by two locals who didn’t speak a word of English. That didn’t stop them however from conveying their anger about how life jackets have just been left everywhere. As we drive along the dirt road there are bulldozers collecting the brightly coloured vests, and the elderly Greek men look genuinely pained as they wave their arms about and gesture widely. I do understand their irritation, this is a gorgeous island and it has been turned into a dump, but at the same time I didn’t think about where I tossed vests as I peeled them off screaming wet children yesterday. And I don’t think one could be expected to.

A story that stirs up more empathy is one of a policeman losing it at a group of refugees who broke branches off olive trees to burn. Olives mean more to the Greeks than just economics, and I get the policeman’s fury. But his claims that they are savages miss the point, what would you do if you were walking through a foreign country and it was dark and cold and you had nothing to keep you warm? Certain businesses have capitalised on the situation and charge refugees as much as $30 for a thin blanket. UNHCR is handing out one blanket per three children. It’s not surprising that left out in the open they reach for the nearest branch. Do you question what is growing on the tree when your body is at risk of hypothermia? Do you freeze to death in a ditch or do you light a fire?

After the refugees arrive they are sent to one of two ‘bus stops’ depending on which part of the coast they land. Although these are supposed to be transit points, in reality there are not enough buses to the main camps and people end up spending the night. Emmanuel is 23 and through Euro Relief runs the stage 2 bus stop outside of Skala. At its maximum occupancy it had 2500 people at once, 1200 overnight. It’s tidy and controlled, and I’m told nothing like the two main processing camps near the capital. ‘Oxy’, the other bus stop, is the opposite. There are no functioning toilets or clean running water, so refugees relieve themselves in the hills and when it rains human waste runs down into the makeshift camp. There is no order and there doesn’t seem to be any control. One person tells me it’s a biological nightmare waiting to happen and it’s only a matter of time before disease is rampant.

The Greek government doesn’t want to do anything to give the situation an element of permanency, and as a result infrastructure is severely lacking. A representative of Samaritans Purse, a US organisation that deals with water management and hygiene, tells me he has a trailer with four sparkling toilets waiting to be brought in, and they can’t get government approval. The authorities are essentially unnecessarily keeping people in this squalor. Denying that this situation is not at the least going to be prolonged is absolute madness. An outbreak of cholera or dysentery is going to leave a much bigger stain on the community than a couple of portaloos.

In complete contrast to this chaos is the Lighthouse Refugee Relief camp that has popped up off the main road. A Swedish-run organisation, you would be forgiven for thinking you were in a camping ground. If you want to give money directly to people working on Lesbos, without question- give it to them. To avoid tension with the community, Lighthouse have had the sense to rent the land and buy all supplies from local businesses. It seems so obvious and logical, but as far as I’ve seen no one else is doing it as well. I’m very attracted to the anarchists who have set up shop next door on public land with their anti-capitalist slogans, but the reality is that they’re not as effective or organised. Sometimes you just want Scandinavians to come in and do a job well.

Anna from Lighthouse tells me some of the stories of people who have passed though. One man’s wife jumped off the boat as it was leaving Turkey, so terrified she became of the sea, and the boat wouldn’t go back to pick her up. He arrived with their two children, terrified about what the smugglers may have done to her, and waited until she thankfully arrived a few days later. Lighthouse asks the people who stay with them to help with maintaining the camp, and two young Syrian guys actually stuck around for several days to help with cleaning and translating. Literally, fresh off the boat volunteer refugees. I don’t think I’ll ever have a good excuse not to do anything ever again. I ask Anna if she’s ever felt uncomfortable, a pretty blonde girl often surrounded by young, single Afghan and Arab men. She tells me she feels more comfortable here than back home. There was one incident where a man hit his wife, and she very loudly scolded him, but other than that the thousands of people passing through has been incident free. Like the emergency centre on Athens, the camp is full of charging iphones and other electronics. Nothing has ever gone missing.

I ask her how she feels about recent anti-immigrant sentiment in Sweden and she says that she’d rather be here. It is so tough going home and hearing people who have so much complain about so little. Her respect for the people that she’s met is clear, some get off the boats and rather than wait for the buses will start walking the two day hike to the capital. She is resolute that they should all be helped, ‘if they make this journey, they have a reason’. Often they arrive and the first thing they ask is how they can get a taxi or where can they book a hotel room. Imagine going somewhere and upon arrival finding out that there’s no room in any inn because of your nationality? As Anna said, no matter how much she tries, she will never really understand, she has a Swedish passport and can go anywhere. I agree. Though I consistently bitch and moan about my lack of an EU passport, the first thing I did when I got here was check into my hotel. I didn’t have to prove anything. ‘That is really difficult’ she admits, ‘saying that they can’t get in that car or stay in that room… I don’t want to have to tell them that it’s because they are Syrian’.

A common story I’m hearing is of the lies told by the smugglers on the other side of the water. There are wild stories around ‘what they tell them’. People show up in Greece expecting that once they get to Germany or Sweden they’ll be given a house. Some people believe that after the boat journey everything else on out will be smooth sailing. Others are acutely aware they have weeks of travel in front of them, often on foot. None of them seemed to realise just how dangerous the boat trip could be. Smugglers tell the refugees to knife the inflated dingys once they are close to shore or else they may be turned around. But people who have never known the sea don’t know what a safe distance is, and many end up in the water.

On Oct 28 a boat sank and despite the best efforts of Frontex and the Proactiva Spanish lifeguards several people drowned. Lack of coordination meant that the rescue ship was swamped and for some time couldn’t move to assist. The captain and crew saw children drown from the deck and couldn’t do anything. It is not only the refugees here who are traumatised, and there is definitely some resentment towards parents for getting on these boats with such young children. I hear words like selfish and irresponsible. Pregnant women arrive daily and a 2 day old baby has been on a boat in the last week. Rescuers are here to patrol the waters and help boats in distress, they are not supposed to have a political opinion, but there doesn’t seem to be a great understanding that choosing not to leave could be as irresponsible a decision for their children as risking the short boat journey. Most do make it in without incident. If you’ve lived for years without being able to take your children to school or leave the house, maybe at some point waiting for your luck to change becomes more unbearable than taking fate into your own hands.

The first thing that you notice about the north coast of Lesbos, after the life vests and the shipwrecks, is how incredibly close Turkey is. I reckon on a good day your ocean-trained Aussie could swim it, and a Syrian man has successfully done so, but for the people I met today the sea is anything but welcoming. I spend most of my time travelling along the beaches with an Israeli organisation called Israid. They spot the boats from kilometres out and drive to where they land. From here women and children are bused to the camps by the IRC, and able bodied men and youth walk.

The first landing point I come across has seen three boats that morning. People queue to receive a ticket that notes if they are in a family. The presumption is that they are Syrian, signs everywhere are in Arabic and volunteers know basic words. But at least 15-20% are Afghan. When the weather was bad last week smugglers dropped prices and there was a surge in Somali and Libyan arrivals. One of the most harrowing things I’m told is that a certain type of life jacket (blue) is stuffed with paper. Almost without fail the wearers are from Afghanistan or Somalia- fake life vests for the poorest. Even amongst refugees there are first and economy class tickets.

The morning has been relatively quiet, the president was supposed to be in town and there are rumours that the coast guards on both sides of the Aegean were told to slow the boats until after he left. There is huge suspicion here towards the authorities, whom people are convinced don’t want to help. Whenever VIPs show up they block traffic on the already poor road and slow down rescue efforts. The first boat I see come in has little trouble. It is a packed rubber dingy, but the people seem relatively calm and even clap as they are escorted in by fishermen. It appears as though there are as many volunteers as refugees on the beach, and the whole process is relatively ordered. Babies and children are handed over first, one little boy hops off and starts walking up to everyone holding his hand out to shake. A pretty Syrian teenager who is one uniform away from looking like she belongs in a private Sydney high school asks me in perfect English what time the first bus will arrive, tells me my shirt is dirty, and then flounces away leaving me very confused. These people are clearly middle class. They unwrap phones that are much more high tech than mine from plastic bags and start taking photos. They are well prepared and seem to know what’s in store for them.

This boat was clearly an exception. That afternoon I see about five more, and the sound that characterises them all is of children screaming. One is stuck 200m or so from shore and is waving for help. They are not sinking, but cannot go anywhere, so Frontex (the EU border agency) sends a ship to push them to where the lifeguards are waiting. They have landed at an awkward spot and have to climb up the steep, muddy hill to get to the road.
Smugglers in Turkey herd the people onto the boats, start the engine, and point in the direction of Greece. This is what 500+Euro gets you. If your engine dies or your boat leaks, or you go the wrong way, or the sea is rough, tough shit. Last week several larger wooden boats arrived. The tickets for these are more expensive because the smugglers brand them as safer, but when refugees show up to board they find they have been packed beyond capacity, and in reality these are the boats that most often sink. There are stories of people having guns put to their head and told that they are now the captain. As astonishing as the number of people on Lesbos is, the refugees consistently say that it is nothing compared to the masses waiting to make the journey on the other side. This problem is not going anywhere. The Mediterranean is clearly not deterring anyone, and people are dying because there is no safe passage.

The coastline from Molyvos to Skala is crawling with people. Some look relieved and some look shell-shocked, all look shattered. The thing that is impossible to ignore is just how much these people are like us. Little girls are dressed head to toe in Disney princess get up, parents are trying to get their children to listen to them, a middle aged woman reaches over to give her husband a kiss, an elderly couple wring out their clothes and then grip each other’s hands for the entire walk into town. I see a young girl walking down the street holding her little brothers hand, while their parents trail after them with their belongings in plastic bags, squabbling about the best way to hold their luggage and telling the kids not to go too far ahead. It’s a surreal scene. Anyone who thinks these people are somehow intrinsically different is so wrong. The things that make us human; fear for our children, concern for the people we love, gratitude towards a stranger that helps, curiosity for something new and someone different- these commonalities are so much stronger than the choice to wear a head scarf, praying by putting your head to the ground, or not eating pork.

The last boat I saw today was the most harrowing. It was getting dark, the wind was strong, the water starting to get rough, and I was freezing with three layers on. I stay out of the way and leave the rescuing to the people who know what they’re doing. But once people are out of the water there are traumatised individuals everywhere. I start taking off soaking life jackets and try to comfort people who are in distress, but I really didn’t know what to do. One woman is wailing and shaking, I grab her by the arms and try to steady her and sit her down. But as soon as I touch her she bursts into tears and falls to the ground. Another is sobbing uncontrollably and convulsing with shivers. I rub her arms and wrap her in one of those foil blankets you see on TV that feel as light and useless as they look. But it is only when I manage to sustain eye contact with her that she seems to register she’s no longer in the ocean and stops hyperventilating and starts saying thank you over and over again. It’s a very short moment, but it’s the closest I come to tears all day.

A Canadian who quit his job and with his girlfriend now lives off less than 8K a year so they can be full time volunteers tells me that last week he was helping a Libyan man with a broken leg and a severed arm, when he suddenly started bashing his head against the wall. There are so many traumatised people and so few volunteers here with the relevant training. They do the best they can, but with so few resources and basic supplies, what they can do is often limited to my contribution today, human touch and empathy. It matters, but these people need so much more than that.

The final story for today is of a volunteer who was driving a young woman and her daughter from the beach up to one of the camps when he heard pained screaming. He pulled over to find a little boy wailing next to the body of his father, whose eyes had rolled into the back of his head and was having an epileptic fit in a ditch. The volunteer had to unload the mother and child and ask them to watch the little boy while the man was put in the back seat and hurried to the camp. He then drove back to pick up the son, who hadn’t stopped sobbing and screaming out for his dad. The man survived, but only because someone drove by at the right time. This frustration is something I hear time and time again, why aren’t the camps on the beach, why aren’t there enough buses, why should people who have just been through hell have to walk two kilometres uphill? The guy telling me this story sounds pretty traumatised himself, and his face is etched with exasperation. We were able to save that man’s life he says, but why should his life be entirely up to chance?

Before you even touch down at Mytilene airport evidence of the catastrophe on the Greek Island of Lesbos can be seen from the air. Thousands of orange and red life vests of all sizes litter the beaches. On the taxi ride into town groups of refugees line the streets with backpacks, some are still wet and have evidently just arrived. By law local taxis are forbidden from driving the refugees, but in reality many bend the rules. I share one with a Greek contractor, and after guiltily checking left and right our taxi driver ushers an Afghan man into the back seat.

The generosity of the Greek people has floored me. While they are clearly angry at a lack of European solidarity, not one has shown a hint of animosity towards the refugees themselves. They are frustrated by the economic situation and by the lack of response from authorities, but no one has uttered anything even remotely close to a call to turn people back. Instead what I consistently hear is a call for safe passage.

The travel agent at Mytilini bus station tells me that this is because Greeks are all too familiar with having to leave their homes. Many of them were displaced themselves during the civil war. “We have lived the same thing” she says. A fisherman points out that a child drowning looks the same whether he is Greek or Syrian. It is only distance that allows people to dehumanise. Australians are able to advocate sending people back to where they came from because these people are kept far away from them, on remote pacific islands, and only exist so far as they are part of a mass. When you see a sodden family walking through your town, carrying all their belongings on their back, no one considers physically turning them around and pushing them back out to the ocean. But in effect this is what we do. People need to realise that in practice the result is the same, geography just allows you to look away more easily.

The travel agent expresses annoyance at how the refugees treat the environment, and admits certain parts of the island no longer feel like her home. But she is quick to say that there have not been any problems between them and the local population. Lesbos has not seen an increase in crime, despite the thousands who have passed through. Her frustrations are practical; the economic situation, long term prospects for the tourism industry, and how Greece is going to cope with accommodating the thousands more who are inevitably going to continue arriving. In response to demand the agency has started selling package tickets that include the ferry ride, assistance on the mainland and then a bus directly to the Macedonian border. She acknowledges that for now the refugees and influx of volunteers and journalists are keeping the economy going. But she is fearful that the tourism industry has suffered irreparable damage and the island will never regain its reputation. 4 cruise ships diverted to different islands this summer.

Instead of holiday makers the port is cluttered with refugees, and I admit that it felt uncomfortable. But it wasn’t so much that I felt threatened as that I felt spooked, as if it were a ghost town. These weren’t people so much as they were bodies. Empty vessels of shell shocked individuals who had breath in them but no life. They lay everywhere, some had tents and sleeping bags and napped, but none of them were present, they were just waiting.

The difference in how certain groups of refugees are perceived is astonishing. From the moment the boats wash ashore people are categorised based on their nationality. Syrians are immediately distinguished from other groups and sent to their own camp. And local empathy towards them seems greater. From what I can gather this is because they tend to have more money, which in turn gets put back into the economy and means they can move on more quickly. While the Afghans are poor and will wait around for a week until they receive Western Union transfers, I see several Syrians withdrawing cash from ATMs and eating in restaurants. Some will even pay for hotels if they can find an owner who will break the rules. They are also better educated and speak more English so can communicate with the Greeks.

The bus to the north of the island where I am now was full of volunteers, and there are accents from every corner of the globe. It is the volunteers who spot the boats coming and rescue people in distress. Other than the Greek coastguard, there does not appear to be government help. NGO workers line the beach at night with lights and binoculars and are the only look outs that may pick up a boat before it crashes into rocks. The entire island has two ambulances responding to the crisis, so volunteers end up driving pregnant women and injured children to hospitals. A few days ago Tsipras was here and I’m told that almost overnight the island was spotless for his arrival. The locals want to know why such effort can’t be directed towards saving lives and organising the situation more effectively.

Unlike the emergency centre I was in yesterday, these camps are not well resourced. There are not enough of them and they have nowhere near enough essential supplies. Other than categorising refugees based on where they are coming from and issuing documentation, there seems to be zero organisation. On a busy day this results in absolute chaos as aid workers are inundated with more people than they can handle. A Canadian volunteer paints a dire picture, ‘Last week we had 600 blankets and 3000 people in one day, how do you choose who gets to stay warm?’

Everyone advocates for opening the land border. The sea is clearly not deterring anyone and hundreds of lives are being lost as a result. These people know where they are going, I hear a story of a little Afghan girl who was plucked out of the ocean and tried speaking to her rescuer in broken German. The Greeks are angry with Germany for imposing austerity measures on them over the summer, and there is a keen sense that Germany owes them and is not paying its own debt. But the government and the EU are determined to maintain the appearance of Fortress Europe, despite the fact that its walls are crumbling all around.

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Forever intrepid gypsy at heart. Lover of pasta, the ocean, yoga and red wine. Believer in human rights, international law and justice. Can't sing, spell or cook. Terrified of snakes and diets. Views are my own.